This curse. Have you noticed how everything we breathe life into falls to bits? The inert objects have a kind of stability. The verdant, vibrant machines have a tendency to tear themselves apart. I have held my breath for so long, and I don’t know how much longer I will be able to, but what is another five years?
They are so small. Have you noticed how they trust you just because you make things grow? I am waiting for the end times for them, to tell you the truth. Maybe when I finally exhale, I will breathe out myself.